


Not Talking About It

by plain_jane08 (awolfling)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bedwetting, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-07
Updated: 2012-06-07
Packaged: 2017-11-07 05:16:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/427272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/awolfling/pseuds/plain_jane08
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for a sherlockbbc_fic  prompt: John started wetting his bed as a result of his PTSD. Moving in with Sherlock put a stop to it, much to his relief. But after the events of TGG, it comes back with a vengeance. John's horrified and embarrassed, and desperately tries to hide it from Sherlock. Sherlock of course finds out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Talking About It

John didn’t talk about it. Not even to his therapist. He couldn’t, not that. He knew what caused it, he was a doctor after all, one prepared for what happened to soldiers and in an age where psychology was less of a mystery than it had ever been before… Well yes, he understood what was happening to him. And he _didn’t_ talk about it.  
  
Then he’d met Sherlock Holmes. He’d gone running after him to a crime scene on the second day they’d met and was basically moved in that evening. It was fast. It was exciting. It was healing, in a bizarre way. In a way John wasn’t sure he even understood, because while maybe Mycroft was right, in some ways he did miss the war, he also knew just how terribly the war had affected him. John had missed the action, missed feeling useful, but he didn’t miss the explosions and being a medic caught in the crossfire where friend and foe looked all too similar. He didn’t miss blood clumping in the sand, desperately trying to save friends, peers, civilians sometimes, knowing that they weren’t going to make it but unable to just give up while they were still breathing. Breathing however laboured or gurgled as blood filled their lungs. No, he didn’t miss that. And with Sherlock, he didn’t have to think about that either.  
  
Everything with Sherlock was a whirlwind; on a case, running through the streets of London or trying to follow his brilliant mind as he fired off facts that you could only see one he’d _showed_ them to you. Even when Sherlock was bored he was interesting, if annoying, firing a gun into the wall, stomping around like a child in a sulk. It was all so busy, so interesting, so brilliant that if there was any time to stop, the last thing John thought about was the past. And every night he was so exhausted, so grateful to be getting sleep that somehow, inexplicably, his problem went away. No more nightmares, no more intrusive thoughts during the day, and no more waking up wet and ashamed. John was happy to move on and try to forget those awful nights.   
  
But then Moriarty happened. Being kidnapped was, well, scary but it wasn’t the first time it had happened. Being strapped with semtex was new and John would never admit just how much that part frightened him. He’d seen what bombs can do to people, seen friends ripped to bits by IEDs, treated men and women with torn off limbs, all too often having to say that there was nothing more he could do, knowing they’d be dead within the hour, day, week. John didn’t want to die, that much was certain. But John also didn’t want Sherlock to go through that horror. Because while Sherlock may be used to seeing violence, may examine horrifically tortured corpses without blinking an eye, John was sure that Sherlock had never really cared about someone the way he cared about John. His only other friend was a skull for Christ’s sake, and Sherlock may have said it as a joke, John was certain it was also true.  
  
John didn’t want to die. But he also desperately wanted Sherlock safe. And Moriarty, well, he was evil. John hadn’t ever used that word to describe anyone before. As far as John was concerned, there was no such thing as evil, but rather people who did really awful things. Moriarty didn’t just do horrible things, he enjoyed it. It was all a game to him, every hurt, every death, every traumatised person, it was all just fun to him.   
  
In those hours between being kidnapped and meeting Sherlock at the pool Moriarty talked to him. Just talked. But his words opened up every emotional wound John Watson had. Those awful twisted truths that dripped from his lips and wiggled into John’s brain; they were worse than physical pain. John would have preferred to be beaten. And when John found the strength within himself to block out the pain, to forget emotions for a while and have logic fill is brain, fighting and winning against Moriarty’s psychological torture, refuting it, that’s when Moriarty laughed gleefully and clapped his hands.  
  
 _“Oh_ yes _Johnny boy! You’re finally learning. Emotions are weakness.”_  
  
But seeing Sherlock’s face at the pool, that broke John’s heart. To see this man who was normally so composed at a loss, to see how much Sherlock actually cared for John and for him to be that vulnerable in front of the enemy.   
  
It didn’t end there, with Moriarty playing more games, snipers, leaving and coming back and then there was only one choice left and Sherlock shot the discarded semtex vest. John tackled Sherlock into the pool, hoping that the water would lessen the blast and that the snipers couldn’t shoot them there. It was all a blur of sensation for John, the bang of the explosion, the complete absence of sound as they went under the water, gripping Sherlock, eyes blurry, lungs burning.  
  
John and Sherlock were taken to hospital and kept over night. Surprisingly they were barely injured, but both of them (yes, even Sherlock) were in shock. Lestrade was there when they were released and before Sherlock could start firing questions at him, he told them that Moriarty’s body hadn’t been found. Somehow, Moriarty had escaped. It made John’s blood run cold.  
  
+  
  
John woke with a start, absolute terror still running through his veins. He tried to breathe, hearing his chest wheezing. He couldn’t get enough air. He needed to calm down. It was just a dream. A nightmare now barely remembered, leaving only fear behind. He didn’t need the fear. He was safe, in his bed. Breathe. Breathe.   
  
Yes.  
  
Breathe.  
  
In. Out. In. Out. In, that’s it. Out, yes good.   
  
Ok, calm. Calm. Clear head, don’t think of anything. Just breathing. Breathing is good. It’s all ok now.  
  
 _Oh God!_  
  
John’s boxers were soaked. Wet, sticking to him, smelling of urine. Tears sprang to John’s eyes. He tried to blink them away but he was helpless to stop them just as he was helpless to stop his nightmares. He couldn’t stop the release of his bladder and he couldn’t stop the absolute shame that filled him until he felt about to burst.  
  
He choked back a sob. He wouldn’t make a sound. He needed to control something, and this he could do. He bit his lip. There would be no whimpering. He would cry silently. And then he would stop crying. He would have a shower and get his bedding in the wash. He couldn’t do anything to prevent this from happening but he was damned if he was going to remain helpless once it had happened.  
  
John had thought he was over this. Living with Sherlock was supposed to have cured it. But it seemed Moriarty had won another one. His first night back from the hospital and it almost felt worse than after he’d been shot in Afghanistan. In fact, it did feel worse. After he’d been shot there was no fear that his shooter would somehow return to finish him off. He wouldn’t be followed back to England. Moriarty was a very real fear.  
  
John hauled himself out of bed. He wasn’t going to think about that anymore. He made his way to the bathroom, squinting as he turned on the light. He avoided the mirror. He didn’t want to see the devastated look that he knew marred his face. John turned on the shower and shucked his boxers with a grimace. Wet, sticky and cold, they took a bit of wrestling out of before falling to the floor with a soggy slap.  
  
 _Fuck_ he’d have to clean the floor now.  
  
John stepped into the shower which was just on this side of too hot. Perfect. John scrubbed himself clean, feeling calmer the less dirty he felt. Once sufficiently clean he stayed under the spray for a while, hoping to ease the tense muscles in his shoulders and back. John’s leg began to ache and with it came a fresh bout of shame. A psychosomatic limp; just another weakness he couldn’t control. John would need to try and hide it from Sherlock.  
  
John turned off the shower and suppressed a groan as he got out, leg cramping as he did so. He dried himself off with a towel and then wrapped it around his waist. He returned to his room and pulled on a clean pair of boxers and a t-shirt. John gathered up his bedding and took it through to the washing machine. He’d need to put his mattress protector back on, as much as it galled him to do so. It was too much to hope that this was going to be a one time thing. John bundled the bedding into the washing machine and returned to the bathroom to retrieve his dirty boxers. He wiped the floor with the towel he’d used and threw both of them in with his bedding.   
  
Turning the washing machine on was a relief. The evidence of his humiliation at least somewhat destroyed. John set about making himself a cup of tea then to calm his nerves. The ritual was comforting and sitting at the kitchen table surrounded by Sherlock’s experiments was approaching peaceful.  
  
John jumped when Sherlock entered the room, having not expected him to be awake. Although why John expected Sherlock to have slept through John’s showering and turning on the washing machine, if he’d actually been asleep at all, John didn’t know.  
  
“Odd change of habits,” Sherlock observed.  
  
John was aware of how close Sherlock was to finding out about his nightmares just by being in the same room at that time. John was still suffering the lingering effects, his leg ached, panic still flittered in the back of his mind. John knew offering Sherlock a fake explanation would be a bad idea. Sherlock would know John was lying and it would make him more curious.  
  
“Yes,” John responded simply. Not lying, and not acting out of the ordinary. John was perfectly within his rights to change his habits if he wanted.  
  
Sherlock seemed to accept that, nodding and sitting down in the chair opposite John.  
  
“Tea?” Sherlock asked.  
  
Sherlock went back to bed after drinking his tea. John was relieved to be able to deal with his bedding in private, able to move it into the tumble dryer without questions of why he’d felt the need to wash those particular items in the middle of the night (or worse, the reasons deduced) but he instantly missed Sherlock’s company.   
  
It was dawn by the time John’s bedding had finished drying. He didn’t bother trying to get more sleep, just made his bed (mattress protector included) and went back to the kitchen to make breakfast.  
  
+  
  
The following week was awful for John. Every night he woke up panting, panicked, wet, ashamed. Even soon after he’d been shot the nightmares hadn’t been this bad. Not every night.   
  
John was exhausted, getting only a few hours of sleep before waking up and never being able to go back to bed. Being too scared to.  
  
Sherlock watched him during the day. John struggled to hide his limp, but generally combated that by sitting on the couch watching telly and not moving. As tired as he was, it was no hardship. John was sure his secret was safe for the time being, that his behaviour just looked like a normal reaction to what they had been through with Moriarty.  
  
+  
  
John woke with a start, gasping and already crying, heart pounding hard in his chest. _Oh God_ that had been the worst one yet. He’d dreamt that Sherlock had been wearing the semtex vest instead of him. The sniper had fired and John had watched Sherlock be blown apart, Moriarty laughing hysterically in the background.  
  
A hand on his shoulder had John reacting before he could think, throwing the person to the ground and pinning them with his body. John was about to throw a punch when he heard Sherlock’s voice.  
  
“John! John! It’s me!”  
  
John looked at the man below him, Sherlock.   
  
“Oh, Sherlock,” John said breathlessly, slumping against Sherlock as the adrenalin quickly faded, leaving him feeling weak and dizzy.  
  
Sherlock brought up a hand to rest on John’s back, rubbing small comforting circles against his skin. It was relaxing, probably the most relaxed John had been in a week. Sherlock was beneath him. Safe. They were both safe. And wet.  
  
 _Fuck_ John had wet himself again  
  
John scrambled away from Sherlock and when his back hit the wall behind him he pulled his legs up to his chest and looked away. Sherlock must have noticed. There was no hiding it now. John’s cheeks burned in humiliation. His eyes brimmed with tears but he held them back. It was bad enough that Sherlock knew John’s secret, John wasn’t going to cry in front of him as well.  
  
“John?” Sherlock said carefully.  
  
“Please,” John choked, “Just go.”  
  
John, still looking away, heard movement and gathered that Sherlock was leaving. He didn’t expect Sherlock to sit down next to him.  
  
“John,” Sherlock said again, placing a hand on John’s knee.  
  
“Don’t,” John said, but didn’t pull away. Sherlock kept his hand there.  
  
“You’re embarrassed, I know,” Sherlock began, “But this is a common response.”  
  
“I’m aware of that,” John bit out, “I am a doctor. And I have a psychologist.”  
  
“Ah,” Sherlock said, “So you’ve talked to her about this then?”  
  
A moment passed. Then another.  
  
“No,” John replied.  
  
“Hmm,” Sherlock hummed, “I suspected as much. John sometimes people need reminding of things, even if they know them already. So hear me out.”  
  
Sherlock waited for a response. John nodded.  
  
“Right. There are two reasons a person may wet the bed, not including weakened kegel muscles” Sherlock said, ignoring John’s grimace, “Firstly, their brain is not receiving the correct signals that the bladder is full and failing to wake the person in time to relieve themselves. Secondly, it may be part of a fear response. The person has nightmares or night terrors and the body reacts accordingly. Adrenalin is released and the body readies itself for a fight or flight response, part of which includes releasing the bladder. I believe you to be in the latter category, your nightmares precipitating the problem.”  
  
John didn’t feel the need to respond to that. Sherlock was right and he knew it. Surprisingly, Sherlock was also right in that hearing it explained by another person did help to ease something inside him. Guilt, maybe. Funny how all John wanted was control over himself, yet the scientific version of “it’s not your fault” was comforting  
  
“I’d like to propose a plan of action,” Sherlock said.  
  
“Actually,” John replied, “I’d really like to have a shower now.”  
  
His boxers were cold as well as wet now, sticking uncomfortably to him. And he really wanted the conversation to be over.  
  
“I fear that you’ll have convinced yourself that everything is fine by the time you are finished if I let you go now and you won’t be amenable to my plan. So if you’ll give me a minute?”  
  
John nodded, there was no harm in hearing Sherlock out, he could always say no.  
  
“Good,” Sherlock said, “I’d like, from now on, to be here when you sleep.”  
  
“What?” John spluttered.  
  
Sherlock didn’t bother repeating himself. “That way I can wake you as the nightmare begins and hopefully avoid the bedwetting altogether. Also, and I’m not entirely sure on this point, if the waking up is consistent you may find yourself automatically waking up as soon as you experience a distressing dream due to conditioning. But that’s conjecture on my part, I’ll need to do some research on that.”  
  
“I’m not sure,” John shifted uncomfortably. He couldn’t imagine being able to get to sleep knowing someone was watching him.  
  
“I see no reason not to try it. Especially since you now know that I know about your nightmares.”  
  
John sighed. He had to admit that he wasn’t even surprised that Sherlock had figured it out. John was fooling himself if he thought he could keep anything so big from Sherlock.  
  
“And when are you going to sleep then?” John asked, because Sherlock’s disregard for his own health bordered on dangerous sometimes.  
  
“You know that I can operate on less sleep than average, John. It won’t be a hardship for me. Besides,” Sherlock added, “I admit I’ve had difficulty getting to sleep in the last week. You are not the only one affected. And I, strangely, although it makes perfect sense psychologically, have found myself calmer around you than alone.”  
  
Before what had happened with Moriarty, John would have been shocked beyond belief to hear Sherlock admit something like that. But John had seen past the sociopath façade that night and saw the hidden Sherlock that feels just as deeply as anyone else. It was that, more than anything, which made John agree to Sherlock’s plan.  
  
“Alright, we can try,” John said, standing up, “Now I desperately need a shower.”  
  
Sherlock let him go then.  
  
+  
  
John had thought it would be hard going to sleep with Sherlock in the room, but whether it was because John was so exhausted, or because it was _Sherlock_ , John was asleep within minutes.  
  
Sherlock sat curled up on the armchair that they’d moved into John’s room, watching John as he slowly relaxed and his breathing evened out. It was to be expected that John’s nightmares would take place during REM sleep, commonly where vivid dreams occurred, the first bout of which, in the average sleep pattern, should happen approximately two hours after falling asleep. However, Sherlock suspected it would happen far sooner for John given his recent lack of sleep.  
  
Sure enough it was about half an hour into Sherlock’s vigil that John showed signs of distress. John gave a quiet groan and Sherlock unfurled himself from the chair and approached the bed. John was frowning, but was otherwise undisturbed. Sherlock wondered if he should just let John continue sleeping, he hardly seemed in the grips of an intense nightmare. But then, REM was generally coupled with near paralysis of the body; John could be greatly distressed and Sherlock might not even know.  
  
Sherlock placed his hand on John’s shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze.  
  
“John?” He called.  
  
John woke with a cry, eyes flying open, hands automatically going to Sherlock’s arm and pushing him away. Sherlock immediately retreated, giving John space while he came back to reality.  
  
“Thank you,” John panted a moment later, quickly regaining his equilibrium. “How long was I asleep for?”  
  
“Only a half hour, I’m afraid,” Sherlock replied.  
  
“Oh,” John said, disappointed, “I may as well get up. Never can get back to sleep afterwards.”  
  
“No,” Sherlock huffed, “Scoot up.”  
  
“What?” John frowned.  
  
“Scoot. Up.” Sherlock said, chivvying John with his hands.  
  
John slid to the other side of the bed and Sherlock climbed in next to him.   
  
“Right,” Sherlock said, lying on his back, “Now come here, lie on your side.”  
  
John did as he was bid, getting closer to Sherlock, lying facing him.  
  
“Oh for-” Sherlock wrapped an arm around John and pulled him closer, resting John’s head on his chest.   
  
“There,” Sherlock said, “I believe this will be the most comfortable way to sleep. Human contact will likely be helpful to both of us and you’re lying on top of me, so you’re unlikely to feel trapped. Additionally you’ll be able to hear my heartbeat, which is generally considered to be a soothing sound. Hopefully we’ll both get some sleep this way, and you’ll wake me when you have a nightmare, so I’ll be able to wake you. It’s a perfect arrangement.”  
  
John found he couldn’t argue with that.  
  
+  
  
Sleeping with Sherlock didn’t cure John’s nightmares, but it did help. They were less frequent and certainly less potent. It was a gradual process, but eventually John’s nightmares had mostly faded. Years later he may have the occasional spontaneous one, but Sherlock was always there to calm him. It didn’t cure the bedwetting either, and more than once John had had an accident in the night, soaking both himself and Sherlock. John had been absolutely mortified, so distressed that it had almost precipitated a panic attack, but Sherlock’s no-nonsense way of dealing with everything was calming. And showering together afterwards had gone a far way in making John feel less disgusting. Mostly, though, Sherlock managed to wake him before that happened.  
  
John still doesn’t talk about it. But then, with Sherlock, he never has to.


End file.
